Nyxia uprising, p.1
Nyxia Uprising, page 1
ALSO BY SCOTT REINTGEN
Nyxia
Nyxia Unleashed
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Scott Reintgen
Cover art copyright © 2019 by Getty Images/Sunny
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Reintgen, Scott, author.
Title: Nyxia uprising / Scott Reintgen.
Description: First edition. | New York : Crown, [2019] | Series: The nyxia triad ; book 3 | Summary: “Emmett and the Genesis team must join forces with a surprising set of allies if they’re ever to make it home alive” —Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018049016 | ISBN 978-0-399-55687-6 (hardback) | ISBN 978-0-399-55689-0 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Conduct of life—Fiction. | Mines and mineral resources—Fiction. | Life on other planets—Fiction. | Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R4554 Nyz 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780399556890
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Cover
Also by Scott Reintgen
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part I: Survival
Chapter 1: The King
Chapter 2: Explorers and Survivors
Chapter 3: Goodbye
Chapter 4: Alone
Chapter 5: The Colossus
Chapter 6: Ravine Shelter
Chapter 7: Life and Death
Chapter 8: New Recruits
Chapter 9: The Wizard Behind the Curtain
Chapter 10: My Greatest Weapon
Chapter 11: Alarms
Chapter 12: Dover Beach
Chapter 13: Arabella
Part II: Collision
Chapter 14: Broodlord
Chapter 15: Honor
Chapter 16: Launch Bay 2
Chapter 17: Launch Sequence
Chapter 18: Cross Fire
Chapter 19: The Prodigal
Chapter 20: Eyes
Chapter 21: Showdown
Chapter 22: Impact
Part III: Aftermath
Chapter 23: Signal Interrupted
Chapter 24: Escape
Chapter 25: Grimgarden
Chapter 26: Foundry Revisited
Chapter 27: Survival Mode
Chapter 28: The Tower Space Station
Chapter 29: The Quietest Thing
Chapter 30: Old Tricks
Chapter 31: The Traitors
Chapter 32: The Final Stand
Chapter 33: First Place
Chapter 34: Fallen
Chapter 35: Genesis 11
Chapter 36: Kings and Queens
Part IV: Homeward
Chapter 37: The New Ring
Chapter 38: Preparation
Chapter 39: Bounty
Chapter 40: Family
Chapter 41: Earth
Acknowledgments
About the Author
TO MY SON, HENRY.
Sometimes we forget that magic is real. You are my precious reminder. Your smile is the bright lamppost at the edge of Narnia. Each laugh is a lettered invitation to Hogwarts. When I scoop you up into my arms, it is magic that makes us dragons soaring on wide-swept wings. Consider this a promise, sweet boy, to always help you see the magic you’ve shown me.
Love, Dad
Babel’s king bleeds.
For a moment, I think I’ve lost the trail. But I double back and find his blood painted across moonlit leaves. A great streak of scarlet marks the body of a swollen trunk. If I squinted any longer, I might have been able to convince myself the mark looked like the Chinese characters for dying.
I need this king alive.
Moonlight dominates the clearing. A creek angles west. It forks, and just there, I see where Defoe must have gone. There are no footprints, not in this ghostly place, but it’s the most reasonable decision. A massive tree has been exposed at the roots. They curl above and around a hollow. It’s the kind of burrow a deer might sleep in. I watch the shadows for several minutes.
No movement.
I follow the creek forward. The trees sway, their branches and leaves grasping at the light of the nearest moon. It almost feels as if the entire forest is flinching away from where Defoe is hidden. Fifty meters. I lift both hands innocently into the air. My eyes trace over the landscape, through the shadows. I’m not eager to die just because some creature has picked up our scent.
Twenty-five meters. I pause, hands still raised, awaiting an invitation. The shadows are too deep to see anything. Breathing. I can hear breathing. One shallow breath after another.
Reaching up, I tap the light on my shoulder. A beam flashes out—like a third moon—and highlights the makeshift cavern. Defoe is there. His eyes take in the sight of me before closing in pain. I can feel him grasping, the subtle trace of nyxia in the air. Clearly, he’s far too weak to do much with the substance. I have a choice to make. The consequences will echo.
The first choice ends here and now. How painfully simple it would be to finish him. One of Babel’s greatest threats, erased. It would eliminate any opportunity for him to hurt the others.
It would also eliminate any opportunity to infiltrate Babel. Show up on their doorstep without him and I become a prisoner. The other choice: Save him. Rescue. Subvert. Wait.
When I strike, I want to make sure I hit an artery. My two choices and their consequences play out in less than a breath. “Mr. Defoe.” I make my voice calm. “I came to help you.”
He wheezes. It’s almost a laugh. It is clear what he thinks of me.
“Longwei—of course you did….”
I watch as he leans his head back. Hidden at his hip, an explosive. Identical to the one he used on the battlefield. The same device that nearly ripped my friends apart with a single blast. Defoe lifts the device so I can see it more clearly.
“I thought—well, never mind what I thought.” A cough shakes his body. “Take this. Replace my fingers on the pin and get rid of it. Three-second charge. Throw it as far as you can.”
His arm shakes, but I am steady. I replace his fingers quickly, device secured, and turn. Twenty paces bring me back to the edge of the creek. With a deep breath, I throw the grenade as far as I can. Moonlight dances across its spiraling surface; then the grenade falls below the tree line and vanishes briefly from sight. A second passes before an explosion tears the darkness in two.
Bright and loud. A pair of birds take to the air. Something massive stirs deeper in the forest. I move back to Defoe’s side. “I can’t—stop the bleeding,” he gasps. “The nyxia won’t take.”
I kneel so that my shoulder light is centered on the curled, covered stump of his arm. He has a soiled towel wrapped around it. Ineffective. I set down my own pack and start digging.
A new bandage, gauze, a plastic bag.
“I need to unwrap your current bandage.”
Defoe nods once. I pinch the gauze between two fingers, carefully avoiding the blood, and lift one corner. The folds unravel. Defoe doesn’t protest as the material rips and snags. The wound exposes the bloody interior of his arm. Babel’s king. How human he seems now. For too long I thought him a god. Seeing him this way will help in all that is to come.
I pack the gauze in tight around the exposed areas before wrapping the bandage tightly. Layer after layer. I use a piece of nyxia to seal it to his arm. Defoe lets out a groan as I pull the plastic bag over the entire wrapping, cinching it on his forearm, closing everything within.
“It needs to be iced,” I say.
“It needs a lot more than ice,” he replies. “I haven’t slept. I’ve forced myself to keep moving. I need you to seal us in here. Keep us safe. Do you know how to do the manipulation?”
In answer, I reach for my nyxia. The substance pulses. A firm thought casts it out like a curtain, big enough to drape over the entrance of the hollow. “Like this?”
“Adjust it,” Defoe gasps back. “So we can see out, but nothing can see in.”
The change takes a few attempts. Defoe worms his way deeper into the hollow so there’s room for me. I reach up, tucking the top of the nyxian drape between a set of exposed roots. I test it with a tug and it holds. The fa
“Sleep. I need sleep.”
For the second time, I consider killing him.
The moment slips by like a long, slithering snake. Understanding shivers down my spine. I can feel the goose bumps run down my neck and arms. I know what keeping him alive will mean. Someone will die. A friend of mine, perhaps. Defoe is formidable. He can turn the tides in a single battle with ease. His intelligence will also give Babel the upper hand in the coming days.
Who will die because I let him live? What will the cost be?
I force myself to swallow those fears. I chase the dark thoughts away and remember that it’s wise to lose a battle if it means we can win the war.
Unbidden, my eyes roam up to the distant moons. Glacius looks like an unpolished pearl; Magness like a bloodshot eye. The two moons appear hammer-struck into the sky. It’s hard to remember they are moving, spinning, spiraling. I know their paths are drawing them inevitably toward one another. I keep the thought quiet—almost afraid Defoe might hear it if I think about it for too long. But no matter how much I try to bury it, the truth is impossible to ignore.
This world is coming to an end.
* * *
—
At dawn, we march through the forest and onto an open plain. The first continent was marked by creeks and rivers. This one is dotted instead with old ruins. Stone buildings long abandoned, the patterns they carved into the hills all but faded.
For all his faults, I admire Defoe’s sense of efficiency. He breathes and walks and uses every ounce of what he has left to move toward safety. He speaks rarely and I follow his lead.
Our silence is interrupted once: a loud, droning beep. It’s sharp and ear-piercing. Defoe stares down at his watch as the noise winds to a more bearable volume. I glance over in time to see four blue lights, arranged like cardinal directions. The northern one flickers and vanishes.
Defoe considers the watch long after it goes silent. His expression is telling, dark.
It takes us seven hours and forty-eight minutes to find a roaming unit of Babel marines. They emerge from the cover of the nearest hill like ghosts dressed in black. Their weapons are drawn and raised until they realize it’s Defoe. In a breath their original directive is abandoned. They transform into escorts. We’re directed to an elevated ruin just south of the location.
There’s enough light to see a sprawl of vehicles packed into the abandoned courtyard. Everything bears Babel’s signature designs: nyxian, sleek, deadly. Even injured, Defoe straightens his shoulders and marches into camp like a king. I am less revered. One of the marines stops me. I’m briefly frisked, my weapons removed. I take a deep breath and wonder if my chance to strike just slipped through my fingers.
But Defoe waits. Once my weapons have been removed, he signals for me to join him. I might be defanged, but I’m still in the right position. A marine leads us around an armored truck and directly to a team of techies. Holoscreens display satellite imagery, live-feed camera shots, and landscape views. Defoe doesn’t hesitate. “Give me a full status update.”
There’s confusion as the techies turn to take in the scene. Every eye settles on the bleeding stump I treated the night before. In the day’s failing light, it looks like a poor excuse for medical treatment. One of his men arrives at the same conclusion.
“Mr. Defoe,” he says. “We need to treat your arm. You’re bleeding, sir.”
He glances at his bandages. “In a minute. I want a status update. Now.”
One of the other techies takes the lead. I note he has the same glove that Kit Gander wore. When he swipes a finger through the air, one of the smaller screens migrates to the central monitor. The image resolves into a massive map of Magnia. We all watch as the empty outlines of continents begin to populate. Lines—like the migratory patterns of birds—color the screen.
“Blue lines are likely escape routes for each ring,” the techie explains. “Our teams are working through the wreckage of Sevenset. The reported casualties are far lower than expected, sir. After discovering the first deep-sea tunnel, our crews ran scans as directed. We have a general idea of where the evacuees would have gone, but there’s still no explanation for how they evacuated so quickly. The amount of time between when we disabled the defenses and launched the attack was less than five minutes.”
“And each ring has its own evacuation tunnel?” Defoe asks.
“There are hundreds of tunnels, sir,” the techie answers. “But there do appear to be tunnels specifically designated for leaving Sevenset. They’re all buried far more deeply than the rest.”
“Seven exit points that connect to four different continents.” Defoe considers that. I can see him trying to figure out where they went wrong, how the strike could have come too slow. I’m thankful that he doesn’t look at me. “The facility we destroyed to the north was designed for aircraft warfare. The designs were pedestrian compared to our tech, but it was the clear destination for the group leaving the Sanctum. Are there matching bases near the other exit points?”
The techie shakes his head. “We have no visuals.”
Those words draw Defoe’s attention more sharply. He doesn’t look surprised. Rather, it’s a confirmation of something he already suspected. He glances down at the missing light on his watch.
“When were the last satellite images sent from the Tower Space Station?”
“Four or five hours ago?” The head techie frowns. “We weren’t sure what to make of it. Command was directing us away from the crews that escaped our initial attack. But every single soldier on this mission knows the Adamite leadership was our primary objective. We hesitated to pull troops until we had confirmation from you.”
Defoe nods. “Did you receive any distress signals?”
The techies exchange glances. “None, sir.”
“Send a request for verbal confirmation. Ask for a Code Four Update.”
There’s a brief pause. “You suspect casualties?”
“Just send it.”
The room grows tense as the techies scramble to complete the request. I listen as they carefully pronounce each word. The message vaults through atmospheres, corrects for orbiting patterns, and glows green upon delivery. Everyone takes their cues from Mr. Defoe. Silence is held sacred until a response appears in front of the central techie. He leans forward, squinting, and reads.
“All-clear response. No casualties.”
Defoe clinches his good fist. “So the Tower Space Station is compromised.”
The entire group stares back at him. Only the lead techie manages to find his voice.
“But they’re reporting no casualties….”
He holds up his watch. Three of the lights are still glowing blue. The fourth light is gone. Defoe decides to pull back the curtains and explain the mystery. “And yet this tells me that David Requin is dead. Combine that information with their desire to redirect you from our priority target, and we can make the reasonable assumption. Let’s keep lines open, but treat all communication with them as tainted. I’d like to start gathering as much intelligence on the ground as possible. Falsify any reports you send back to them. Let’s go ahead and get working on action plans for recovering the space station.”
When the others don’t move, Defoe raises an eyebrow. The look transforms hesitation into action. The techies busy themselves, and a handful of marines retreat to discuss strategies.
Defoe looks deep in thought. “Wait. The Genesis 14. When is it scheduled to arrive?”
